


Back Warmer

by Synekdokee



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Biker AU, Enthusiastic Consent, Human AU, M/M, References to Past Abusive Relationships, References to abusive parent, Smut, Some daddy kink, Trans Connor, just pure smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-19
Updated: 2019-06-19
Packaged: 2020-05-13 15:54:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19254361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Synekdokee/pseuds/Synekdokee
Summary: They’re not in a relationship. At least not the kind either of them has ever been in before.





	Back Warmer

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to write a little more for a fic thread I did on Twitter. [You can read it here.](https://twitter.com/SynTurtle/status/1097995849437712384) It's got the setup you need to know what's going on - Hank is in an MC that does some vaguely illegal stuff, Connor is a punk who just wants to belong. And to get dicked down. 
> 
> (I referred to Connor's hole as "pussy" etc. in that thread because I wasn't aware it can be a little iffy for people. The word doesn't appear in this fic.)

If anyone asks, they’re not ”in a relationship”. Hank hasn’t done relationships since his divorce. Connor has cultivated his slut persona with too much care to let go of it now.

Connor flirts with the other men at the club house, a perpetual cocktease. He plays the role of a house mouse, but at the end of the day the men know Hank’s got a claim on him. They can look, and sure, touch a little, and Hank will watch them with lazy interest. He seems to like to see Connor kiss - likes to see him in some guy’s lap, their big hands on Connor’s slim hips and slender thighs, devouring Connor’s pink mouth.

But if anyone gets up and tries to lead Connor away, out of the club or into the toilets, Hank will stand up and walk to the door, and he’ll call Connor’s name in a tone that leaves nothing uncertain.

Connor goes. Every time, like a dog to his master’s voice.

They’re not in a relationship. At least not the kind either of them has ever been in before.

 

Summer arrives, hot and dry and dusty, and Connor realises he hasn’t slept in his own shitty apartment in two weeks.

Hank’s trailer is parked in a grove by a river that’s mostly dried up by June, but it’s shielded from the sun, easing the heat a little. Connor sits on the steps while Hank works on his bike, tinkering at something that doesn’t really need mending. Connor’s bottle of beer is sweating in his hand, dripping condensation over his skin, and a gust of wind kicks up dust that settles into the dampness.

It’s too hot for clothes, but Connor has always liked the promise of skimpy clothing. A hint is often sexier than spelling things out. He’s wearing one of Hank’s old tees, the black of it worn, the name of an obscure metal band faded. It hangs off one shoulder, exposing his freckled skin. He’s borrowed a pair of Hank’s boots, and between them and the very short, frayed edges of his denim shorts that hint at the curve of his buttocks, his tanned legs look like they go for miles. Connor is quite proud of them. He’s especially fond of the way Hank likes to grab them and spread them when he’s fucking Connor.

They’ve been like this since morning - Hank had rolled out of bed early, leaving Connor to sleep. Connor doesn’t know it, but Hank had spent a long moment watching him sleep in the dappled light filtering through the trees and the grimy window into their mussed up bed. And Connor doesn’t know of the foreign, fond sensation that had taken over Hank then, or of the brief, fleeting moment of belonging, until Hank had shaken himself out of it and gone to brew coffee so strong you could stand up a spoon in it.

When Connor had finally woken up the sun was high in the sky, and even the trees couldn’t shield the trailer from the noon heat. He’d been damp with sweat, his hair sticking everywhere, his mouth dry and cottony. A quick, cool shower, and a tall glass of water with some toast had made him feel more human, and he’d gone out to join Hank outside, his wet hair drying quickly in the dry heat.

They don’t speak. Connor drinks his beer and drags patterns in the dirt with the heels of his boots and watches Hank. Hank in a tank-top stained with engine oil and god knows what, his hair tied up away from his face while he works on his bike. He looks immune to the sun, his muscled arms tanned deep. He’s still wearing his black jeans, his gut straining against his belt, while Connor is sweating in his shorts. Even covered in sweat and dust and oil, Hank looks powerful and dangerous. A man you don’t fuck with because he’s got less to lose than you.

Connor loves him fiercely. Had fallen for him almost immediately, hard and fast. It’s not a secret. It’s what Connor does - he seeks out men big enough to protect him, and throws himself at their feet. He’s loved dozens of men since he left home, all of them older, stronger, meaner. Most of them bad for him. Some had left bruises and scars, lessons Connor had forgotten, again and again.

Hank’s not like that. He’s hard and ruthless, and certainly dangerous, but not to Connor. Not even like some of the men he’d been with, the ones who’d dote on him, until their sixth beer, and then they'd cut their knuckles on Connor’s cheekbones.

When Hank drinks - and he often does - he sits in silence and broods, like a storm that never erupts, and traces his fingers over the tattoo on his forearm. A four-letter name, and two dates, six years apart. When Connor asks, Hank will storm out and slam the door hard enough to shake the whole trailer.

Even then he won’t raise his hand.

Worse than bruises though is the way he will withhold himself. Sometimes Connor pushes his limits too hard, a boy who doesn’t know how to function unless there is an older man hurting him, and Hank will snap and hiss something in a venomous tone and deny Connor his affection. It’s worse than any beating Connor’s ever received - at least then he had their attention. But Hank will treat him like air, won’t blow the whistle when Connor gets too handsy with someone else at the club, will ride away without Connor pressed up against his back. The indifference hurts more than a punch.

Fists or not, it always leads to the same scene - Connor held in a tight embrace as he listens to promises of how it will never happen again, a dozen apologies that don’t quite soothe away the hurt but reel him in close enough that it’s easy to tell himself he can’t leave.

He learns not to push so hard. To stop trying to find the bits of Hank that can’t stand being prodded at. He finds that there are other ways to deal with problems than the ones his parents and former partners taught him. That not everything has to be a competition to see who can hurt the other more.

That just because they’re not constantly fighting doesn’t mean things are boring, that Hank will lose interest in him. The frantic panic that rises in Connor when things are too easy ebbs away, a day at a time.

Lost in his thoughts, Connor startles when Hank stands up and pats his jeans clean before straddling his bike to test the suspension he keeps fine-tuning again and again. The bike is an eternity project, Connor has learned.

“How come you say your bike is perfect but then keep trying to improve it?” Connor says, kicking at a pebble. Hank gives him a look that makes Connor grin impishly, head tilted in a way that makes an errant lock of hair fall across his brow.

“I’m doing this so I don’t have to listen to you whine about your ass being sore,” Hank drawls, leaning back in a way that is a clear invitation, cocky and self-assured. Connor eyes at his lap and stands up slowly. Hank’s eyes at him warily as he saunters up and swings one long leg over to straddle Hank and the bike.

“It’s not the bike that’s making my ass sore,” Connor purrs, draping his arms over Hank’s broad shoulders and leaning close.

The kiss is slow and dirty, Hank’s tongue licking into Connor’s mouth, his hands gripping Connor’s waist. Connor can feel the swell of Hank’s stomach press against his own flat belly, and arousal sparks in his gut.

They end up back inside the trailer, with Hank sitting on the bed and Connor on his knees on the floor. The shorts are gone and Connor’s got one hand playing with his nipples while Hank undoes his belt and zipper and pulls out his half-hard cock.

Connor loves Hank’s cock as much as he loves Hank himself. It’s thick even when soft, veiny, the tip flushed red. It makes Connor’s mouth water and his dick throb, his nipples hard. He would go as far as claim he’s addicted to Hank’s cock.

“Go on, boy,” Hank rumbles. He places a large palm behind Connor’s sweat-damp neck and pulls him forwards. Connor whimpers, and then his lips brush over the hot tip of Hank’s dick and the surge of arousal and hunger that flows through him is almost painful.

Connor keeps his gaze on Hank’s and parts his lips, wrapping them around Hank in an obscene display that could put most porn to shame.

“That’s it,” Hank says, voice low and a little rough. “That’s my good boy.”

Connor whines and takes Hank deeper, eagerly stuffing his mouth full. He loves sucking cock, has always been good at it. There’s nothing quite like the weight of a dick heavy on his tongue, taste of Hank's salty skin and spunk, his lips stretched around the girth and his jaw aching as he drools all over himself while Hank fucks his throat.

He’s growing wet, too, and he slides his hand down between his legs to tease at the nub of his cock before pushing two fingers between his swollen lips, pressing them inside his hole. He groans around Hank, and Hank tightens his hand on his neck.

“You touching yourself? Fuck, Con,” Hank groans, his hips jerking as he leans over to try to catch a glimpse of Connor fingering himself.

Connor slides a third finger in, the stretch making him lose his rhythm and making him gag on Hank’s cock a little. The asshole that he is Hank won’t let him up immediately, lets him gag and retch and dribble spit from the corners of his mouth until he’s nearly out of air, nose crushed into the curve of Hank’s gut as he fucks himself furiously with his shaking hand. And then Hank lets go and Connor surges up and gasps for breath, his chin and collar slick with saliva and precome, his cheeks wet with tears.

“Christ, you look like a slut,” Hank says, arousal and fondness clear in his voice. His cock is wet and jutting up proudly, and Connor’s done with foreplay. He pulls his hand away and wipes the slick on his shirt. When he stands up he can feel how wet he is - his thighs tacky with his own juices.

Hank goes down easily when Connor pushes at his shoulders and climbs to straddle him. The bed creaks under their combined weight but holds, as it always does.

The slide of Hank’s shaft along Connor’s slit makes them both groan. Connor’s cock aches, and he arches his hips so he can rub it along Hank’s dick.

“Too fucking hot for this,” Hank growls, kicking off his jeans and struggling out of his top. Connor takes one of his nipples between his lips and sucks, his hands caressing Hank’s skin, feeling the familiar scars and the wiry hair on his chest and belly.

They stay like that for a while, with Connor draped over Hank, lazily grinding his cock on Hank’s, suckling at Hank’s tits. Hank hums with approval and pets him, long, tender strokes of his large paw of a hand on Connor’s hair, shoulders and back. It makes Connor feel safe, being pressed up against the barrel of Hank’s body like this.

Eventually Hank’s hands begin to wander lower, until he’s pushing one between Connor’s ass cheeks, sliding past his asshole to his slit.

“You’re fucking soaked,” he rumbles while Connor spreads his legs wider. Thick fingers drag over his hole, playing with his swollen folds and his small cock, and finally, finally Hank pushes two fingers inside. Connor groans, arching his back so he’s pressed tight against Hank’s large stomach, rolling hips back. Hank’s fingers are thicker than his, stretching him wonderfully - and he needs it, if he’s going to take Hank’s cock.

“Gimme another,” he pants, and Hank grunts, nudging the tip of a third finger against Connor’s opening and slowly pushing inside. The stretch makes Connor breathless, makes him so hot, so turned on with the promise of being fucked.

“Daddy, daddy, please,” Connor mewls, pressing his forehead to Hank’s chest.

“Shh, good boy,” Hank croons, fucking him slowly, curling his fingers until Connor is drooling over him. When he pulls out Connor can feel how wet his fingers are when they brush against his legs, and then Hank’s pulling his cock out from under Connor’s belly and guiding it to his slit. It presses against Connor’s slick hole, and with a slight shift of Connor’s hips it slips inside.

It doesn’t matter how often they do this - each time Connor is sure Hank will split him open and leave him a gaping mess.

“Ha-Hank,” Connor pants, and Hank looks at him, his blue eyes hungry. It’s too much, Connor’s too turned on and his dick is aching, and Hank is sliding in deeper, his shaft dragging against the nerves around Connor’s throbbing dick, until he bottoms out. The final straw is the sensation of Hank’s finger tracing the rim of his wet hole, stretched taut around Hank’s girth, teasing, until it brushes over Connor’s cockhead and with a sharp cry Connor shakes apart, his hole clenching around Hank’s cock, throbbing while he trembles through his orgasm.

He slumps over Hank with a wet sob, his hole pulsing around Hank, trying to milk him.

“On a hair trigger today, huh?” Hank teases him, but his voice has gone a little breathy, his hands a little shaky. Connor only whimpers.

Hank rolls them over easily, Connor boneless on the bed, his thighs spread wide and welcoming Hank. He gasps when Hank begins to move, fucking him with slow and steady thrusts. Like this, with Hank’s weight pinning him down, pressed between the bed and the expanse of Hank's broad build, Connor feels euphoric. He can feel the swell of Hank’s abdomen brush over his pubic mound, just over his cock in a torturous tease.

They fuck for what seems like forever. Connor can smell their sweat and the sweet musk of his own slick mixed with the sharp scent of oil. Hank grunts and groans above him, moans Connor’s name like it could be a swear or a prayer. Connor cranes his neck and captures Hank's mouth in a kiss, swallowing his grunted praise.

When Hank’s thrusts turn less paced, quicker and harder. All of the considerable strength in his body is put into fucking Connor to within an inch of his life, and all Connor can do is wrap his legs around Hank’s and ride it out, coaxing Hank with sweet little moans and praises.

“Fuck, daddy, fuck me, that’s it, you’re so good, you’ll fuck me in two, come on,” he chants, and Hank growls and rises up on is elbows and begins to rut, like he’s trying to fuck his way through Connor. Connor wails and cries and claws red marks in Hank’s back, feeling like he’s being bred by some beast when Hank loses control like this.

“Goddamn slut,” Hank grits out, face flushed and teeth bared. “Filthy little thing, gonna show you, ruin you, no other man’s gonna fuck you like I do.”

Connor sobs his agreement, clinging to Hank with desperation, his body on fire.

“Fuck, Connor!” Hank roars, and then he shoves inside one more time and goes still, his whole body like a coiled wire when he comes, his cock twitching inside Connor while he empties his load. Connor pants, staring at the ceiling in bliss until he feels Hank’s spunk begin to drip out of his used hole.

“Jesus Christ,” Hank groans, muscles relaxing. He gives a few lazy thrusts, sliding in and out of Connor before pulling out completely. A gush of semen follows and Connor whines, frustrated. Hank pulls away and sits back, and Connor can’t look away. Fucked out Hank, panting like a bull, is a sight Connor’ll never grow tired of, and judging by the way Hank’s eyeing him back the feeling is mutual. Hanks cock is slowly going soft, glistening with their combined juices, resting between his meaty thighs. Connor slides a hand to his own cock, rolling it with his fingers, rubbing while Hank watches.

Hank leans in, takes his cock in hand and rubs it over Connor’s come-stained slit, and then pushes inside. It’s a little difficult now that he’s soft, but it feels good, and Connor likes the way it pushes the come back inside him. He likes having Hank’s seed in him - he especially likes it when he gets dressed right away and feels it seep out of him and into his underwear, likes sitting at the clubhouse with his crotch soiled with Hank’s come. Makes him feel filthy. Owned.

Hank gives him a few, shallow thrusts, and then with a dissatisfied grunt he pulls out.

“Come on,” Connor wheedles, but Hank ignores him. He puts his hands on Connor’s hips and flips him over onto his belly, drawing a startled yelp out of Connor.

“What-“ Connor starts, but then his ass is yanked up and then the bed shifts, and when he looks he sees Hank laying down on his back and shimmying between Connor’s spread legs.

“Oh-“ Connor says, but it devolves into a strained wail when Hank’s mouth closes over his cock and _sucks_.

It’s good, it’s so good, fucking phenomenal. Hank won’t do this often, doesn’t like the mess, but when he does Connor falls for him a little more every time.

And then Hank pushes two fingers inside Connor, and it’s barely a stretch now, Connor’s so fucked up and sloppy and used, but then he crooks his fingers and sucks and presses his tongue against Connor’s dick, and Connor orgasms with a broken scream that he tries to muffle into the sheets. Hank doesn’t stop, keeps fucking Connor with his fingers and tonguing at his oversensitive cock, even when Connor begins to sob, pleading, though his hips keep twitching as he simultaneously tries to get more and get away from the overwhelming pleasure.

By the time Hank fucks and sucks and tongues a third orgasm out of him Connor is a crying mess, wailing Hank’s name. Only then does he stop, rolling away and lowering Connor down gently.

Connor pants and shivers, body throbbing with aftershocks. The bed dips and there’s a cool, wet towel being dragged over his face and neck, then to his chest, down to between his trembling thighs. He opens his eyes to watch Hank clean him up with gentle touches, his eyes intense on Connor.

”That was incredible,” Connor marvels. His voice is raw from screaming, his eyes stinging from crying, but there’s a looseness in his muscles only a good orgasm - or three - can give.

Hank smirks and gives him a sly, self-satisfied look.

“Guess I’ve still got it,” he says, his voice gravelly and intimate in the cramped trailer. Connor sits up to reach for him and tugs him down into bed so he can curl up against Hank’s side.

“Can’t lay in bed all day,” Hank murmurs. He rests a hand on the dip of Connor’s spine, as possessive as he is comforting. Connor closes his eyes and presses up against him, content.

“Watch me,” he murmurs.

They lay there in the almost suffocating heat, both of them too tired to talk. It’s nice like this, a calm Connor has rarely experienced with anyone else.

“I spoke to Jeff,” Hank says suddenly. Connor stirs, thoughts scattered, uncertain whether he’s been sleeping or not. Hank doesn’t continue until Connor lets out a hum of acknowledgement.

“We need a scout for tonight,” Hank says, in that tone of his that means he’s trying to hide how serious things are. “You up for it?”

Connor jolts up, staring down at Hank.

“Are you serious? They’d let me?” He asks, trying to not sound too excited and failing.

“It’s a step towards membership,” Hank says carefully, and Connor’s heart skips a beat. A membership to the club. A step closer to having a family of his own.

Hank stares up at the ceiling, mouth pursed into a thin line.

“If you get caught, with your previous record, it means jail time,” he says, tone low.

“I won’t get caught,” Connor says with conviction. He won’t. He’ll do anything to stay here, to make his place here by Hank’s side in the club.

 

Later that night, when the moon is full and the hot night air is full of the sound of cicadas, his back heavy with money and jewellery and guns, Connor closes his eyes against the wind and holds on, arms tight around Hank’s waist, the rumble of the bike’s engine drowning out his thoughts. In the distance the dried river snakes, guiding them home.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on:  
> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/SynTurtle)  
> [Tumblr.](http://roomfullofcunts.tumblr.com/)  
> 


End file.
